Distortions of an Empty Face
by Katany
Summary: After being hit by Alexander Luthor, Jr., Dick has the opportunity to change things in Robin's life, though he is thoroughly stuck in his own.
1. Distortions Prologue

_Distortions of an Empty Face_

By Katany

Disclaimer: DC abuses them more than me.

Notes: I'm not will to call this story dead yet. As it stands, it's compact and heavy and dense and the prologue is written in a style most people abhor (though I admit to overuse), and it's not aimed at the masses. I'm working on _The Distance Between Corresponding Points_ now, trying to get the kinks out of my writing. Then I plan to come back and try to release a more streamlined version with less background story and angst and more flow. Now, I don't plan to remove this story as it, I'd post the new version by itself as it would be a new story. At the speed I write I'm not promising anything soon. But this story is in my thoughts.

Also, I was doing some thinking about the prologue, and it occurs to me part of the problem with the prologue was ffdotnet doesn't allow strike-through script, even in the html editor. The text in the {brackets} was intended to be strike-through, indicating the subconscious thought being over written by a conscious thought. Which I hate explaining, but is a format problem.

.:N:.

_Distortions_ Prologue

.:N:.

The mask was still on his face. Dick noticed it before he felt the press of a firm mattress beneath his back, the hum of electrical equipment in his ear, or even the knowledge that he was alive. One of the first things Batman had instilled in Dick (to fight crime and corruption and never swerve from the path of righteousness) was the importance of a secret identity for the safety of {himself} [those around him]. Dick had long ago figured out that the secret identity was part of the fear The Batman cultivated. True, Batman had taught Robin to put the fear into someone, but he had never been draped in it like Bruce had, frightening criminals and victims alike. Dick was the red, green, and yellow streak that had to kayo a goon twice his size before he was {noticed} [feared] and for a time he was just so happy to {be} [patrol] with Batman that it didn't matter. And though the colorful sidekick should have made Batman less frightening, Batman had never asked him to change. It was a (recently-seriously-injured) thought that Dick recognized, but was not allowed to dwell on.

The mask was still on his face, which meant someone didn't know he was in fact Richard John Grayson. Whether he was among friend or foe, Dick reprimanded himself for thinking "Bruce" as Batman; or was it "Batman" as Bruce? Though he had fallen among comrades, there was still no guarantee he was safe (with Batman). There were no restraints on him; he wasn't chained to a wall or a floor or slab for torture, at least that he could feel. The bed, bandages, and monitors meant that his body was probably not in immediate physical danger. If he was (Twenty-Something Hostage) bait in some trap or the sort than his captor wanted him alive and well for whatever reason, and if he was alive then there was a way to {be rescued} [escape].

The mask was still on his face as he regained consciousness, which implied that he had been unconscious. Not that the concept was anything new, but he felt distinctly {abandoned} [alone]. There had been times when he hadn't, when he felt warm and content despite his broken body, and not even pain and fatigue could dim that feeling. Blackgate: beaten and thrown into a pit with a mob of criminals who would have killed him had they managed to cooperate, forced to fight for his survival even before his eyes were fully open, and yet he had felt alive, his energy jolting through his muscles. Happy, like understanding (Jason) for the first time in years or like (Jason) had had a {death} [life] changing revelation. Even though (Jason) faded into memory, the feeling remained. He felt alone this time, as if time had twisted backwards since Blackgate so there wasn't (the Red Hood) watching him because he no longer deserved anyone (Blockbuster).

The mask was still on his face and he attempted to deduce how long he had been unconscious by the way the spirit gum and perspiration felt on his face. He assumed it was two to three days, but wasn't sure as he realized that it wasn't his mask on his face. This mask lacked the pointed tips on his nose and along the sides of his face. The shape was simple enough to just cover his eyes, though the edges did arch slightly upwards near his temples, most likely a stylistic choice for whoever owned the mask, though it could also have been to hide something telling on the person's face. He began systematically reviewing people's faces for identifying marks near their temples and costumes for masks similar to the one he was wearing. It felt most similar to (Tim's) Robin's mask, which was logical if his own had been damaged to the point his identity might have been compromised, though he doubted (Tim's) Robin's mask would fit so perfectly so he continued making a list.

The mask was still on his face and logically all he had to do stare out through lens filtered eyes and look, but then he would be giving himself away and he still needed more facts. He stretched out his senses slowly and reprimanded himself yet again for not noticing the light singing before. Starfire had not sung to him in years, but he still recognized the Tamaranian song of a warrior. His brain was slow at translating all the words, but the words didn't matter, and the voice was more like a distant memory. Starfire was there and he tried to reassure her of his health in the words of her dead planet as the darkness claimed him once more. Even if he was captured Starfire was there, and he was safe.

.:N:.


	2. Distortions Chapter 1

_Distortions_ Chapter 1

.:N:.

Sounds filtered through the darkness, seemingly random sounds, which slowly weaved their way into syllables. The syllables merged and twisted to form a word: Robin. There were other sounds around the name, spoken softly and yet urgently, as if a sentence was merely syllables of the same word, almost a speedster's speech. But the two syllables that made sense were Rob-in and Dick really wished Tim would respond to the person so the voice would just leave him alone. Unless Tim was unable to respond.

Dick's unfocused eyes snapped open and darted around the room. The movement wasn't enough and he jerked his head upwards to gain a better view, or at least attempted. His body felt tight around his mind, slowing him as if unused to his commands. The room began to spin and he need to concentrate, to lock onto something in the chaos: green eyes. The green eyes stayed centered as everything moved, but after a few moments the image began to slow and he could start to process his surroundings.

"Robin?" The same voice said, gentle and worried.

_Yes, Starfire, where's Robin._ But his vocal cords locked.

"You must calm down." A hand pushed firmly at his shoulder and he was forced to lean back the few inches he had managed to move. "We have been so worried."

_I will calm down when you tell me about Robin and Oracle and Batman._ He still could not speak, which might have been just as well as asking about Oracle might be too obvious, but he hoped she had known him long enough to know what he was saying.

The room stopped spinning and he looked back at her. His mind panicked and jerked back away from her touch, but his body was comforted by the familiarity of the alien princess and seemed to battle his mind. _Not again_. He managed a few broken syllables this time, sounding more like "Na-a-an" than a real word.

Kory attempted to move closer to him. "Are you well? You are distressed. I will get the others." The teen's swift flight from the infirmary should have been followed by a streak of red, curly hair, which Dick noticed was oddly absent. But maybe not so odd as Starfire's teenage body. After nearly dying in battle for the survival of the dimension, it wasn't fair to wake up to find the superhero community aged incorrectly -- again. He was supposed to get breaks in between these sorts of things. He was supposed to be used to these sorts of things, but his lecture only lasted until he noticed his own smaller hands. He was supposed to be _immune _to this sort of thing.

Dick had never expressed to anyone his relief at his immunity to Karion's meddling. If only for selfish reasons, he felt slightly regretful that his orders years ago had prevented Wally from becoming immune as well. Then at least the speedster would have worked with the Titans instead of the JLA. Not that he begrudged his friend for being in the JLA -- he could understand more than anyone else why it was important to Wally -- but the situation was tied to the original Teen Titans and so Wally just should have been with them. And that was beside the fact that the man had been thirteen for his honeymoon, the situation which seemed too close to his own soon to be predicament. But Wally had dished on teen Batman's temper and attitude, so there was some advantage to having an inside man.

_Before the Flashes kicked his ass and disappeared._ Dick did not want to consider the possibilities of Kon's words. While flying he had spoken to Kon about Wally at the beginning so he wouldn't have to think of what might have been the end. He was suddenly grateful for any world crisis to keep his mind diverted, even if he had teenage hormones again.

As if on cue, Kory returned, bringing other too young heroes behind her, and though he still thought that something other than her age seemed off about her, he shifted his focus to the odd lineup. Vic was thankfully not gold, and hopefully old enough to not hit on everyone with breasts. Gar hadn't avoided the situation this time apparently, and Dick briefly wondered if the green teen was going by Beast Boy or Changeling now. He was Beast Boy with Tim's team, but at his current age, he would've thrown a fit if you called him that. Not that either name was really easy to say in a pinch, Gar had chosen codes names that might have only been two syllables, but somehow were a complete mouthful of curvy words. Raven had returned to Earth young, so there wasn't much change there, though she did appear more gray than pale. Perhaps his little brother had been aged again and he found himself amused at the thought of Tim being the elder brother.

"Dude, we've been wondering when you'd wake your lazy butt up."

"Back off, Beast Boy." Gar now hung like a fish from a robotic arm for a second before he really was a fish. "Give the man some room."

Four sets of eyes stared expectantly at him and if he hadn't grown up with Batman he most likely would have sunk into the bed. He opened his mouth to have Kory slip an ice chip in his mouth for his trouble, letting those eyes stare at him while his throat relaxed. His voice was still weak and cracked despite his efforts to control it.

"I'm fine you guys, really, considering," dimensional crisis, dead friends, deathray, de-aging "everything. But how long have we been like this? And who was it this time?"

"What do you mean 'like this'? You are the only one who has sustained injuries."

"Yeah, you promised you'd stop running off in battles on your own, too."

"What happened? Don't you remember anything?"

Dick cocked his head in thought. If they didn't realize something was off with their age and he did, then it probably wasn't just a simple age issue. Crap -- Limbo -- which was perfectly plausible since the walls of reality had just been crumbling. It also meant that he was probably the "Robin" Starfire had been worried about before and maybe Tim was not in danger. And since he doubted all four of them could be fooled by the illusions of Limbo, they were probably figments instead of his friends. Gargoyle had probably chosen a different set of friends, since Roy had accidentally saved them all last time. Though Figment Raven was a poor choice considering she had helped him escape from Gargoyle the second time. Limbo was more a nuisance than a threat, and the fastest way out would be to figure out what was holding him here.

"No."

"_Slade._" Figment Beast Boy's voice was filled with a weary venom Dick hadn't heard from him since the days after Deathstroke's trail, when Gar had spoken to the man and was still unsure he could hate the merc. He said the words like it explained everything, and it almost did.

The venom was echoed in Dick's mind, a seething hatred he never felt for the man until very recently. Even while infiltrating the Society, he had had some measure of respect in at least Slade's honor and moral code. A respect that had clearly been misplaced. The man who had attempted to stop Cheshire from bombing Qurac had now blown up a city, _his_ city, most likely chosen for that reason. Slade liked leaving messages like that.

The burn marks weren't on his left hand from when he had briefly lost his glove in a building collapse, and for now, that was poof enough he wasn't in his own body. This body felt more like a deadweight to him, and for Dick who was movement, it felt like death. He had let his emotions overtake him and he reflexively clamped down on them as not to hurt Raven before he remembered this was Figment Raven. She had not spoken yet and seemed undisturbed by his recent turmoil, which Dick hoped meant she wouldn't offer to dissipate his emotions for him. After rebelling against Bruce he had enjoyed having any emotion, even unpleasant ones. Though that could be her purpose here, to skim off his anger so he'd always be stuck.

Limbo was annoying enough, a Limbo that promised his recent Terminator issues was going to be a blast.

He had forgotten that the figments were waiting for a reply, so Dick swallowed as much disgust as possible before he echoed Figment Beast Boy. "Slade?"

"He was attacking the Wayne building for some electronic doohickey Cyborg could tell you about."

"He lead you away from us as battles before."

"We found you unconscious with this," Figment Cyborg produced a metal disk with a stylized "S" on it that Dick didn't recognize, "which in short attacked your nervous system by disconnecting your brain signals to the rest of your body. I think it was supposed to be worse than that, but something must have disrupted it. Your situation should only be temporary, maybe a few more days."

"I have been monitoring his brain waves. I can detect no damage or alterations on the surface, though I would have to go deeper to be sure."

"No, Raven, that won't be necessary. Guys, I'm really okay. Just give me sometime and I'll be good."

"I believe it is shock that prevents his remembering, he should be fine with some rest."

The figments' eyes shifted towards some vague center point, as if they'd seen Dick's recovery habits before.

"Look, it's not like I'm going anywhere; I can't move."

"You are right, Robin," Dick was not going to wince when Figment Starfire called him that, "would you like us to bring you some entertainment, perhaps a board of games?"

Dick was also not going to wince at the figment's speech pattern. "Just my computer is all. I should update some old case files."

"I would rather you rest than work, but I'd rather you work than be bored. We will get you your computer on the condition you rest first."

Dick gave them his most reassuring smile, the one even his real friends had never gotten entirely immune to, and was rewarded with a beaming smile from Figment Starfire before she ushered the rest out.

"And don't worry about a thing, I've got the whole leadership thing taken care of while you're stuck in bed all week."

"Sure thing, Green Genes."

He shouldn't have been so informal and comfortable with the figments as it stopped them all near the door to stare at him. Dick was worried they weren't going to leave for a minute, but they finally filed out leaving him alone. The repercussions for "Salad-Head" could have been a lot worse he supposed, but it reminded him these weren't the people he knew. Though why his mask was on when Gargoyle knew his face and name?

Roy should be here to do something unexpected. Dick could take crazy risks instead of complex plans as field leader, though not without assessing the situation more than his team realized. There were just too many assumptions for him to proceed at this point, and he couldn't just go around punching everyone until he was free. So he had to gather as much information as he could about what was keeping him here and away from his family and fiancée. He silently hoped the answer would be on the computer, like all the written word was replaced with Kryptonian symbols or the answer was typed repeatedly on the computer screen like so many movies.

As he was, Dick couldn't do much more until he could move. He chose a Tibetan meditation technique Bruce had taught him long ago, and Dick had used enough he should have been able to regulate and slow his breath easier. Mind and body slowly merged as his awareness flowed to the edges of his limbs and beyond.

After one thousand heartbeats, Dick felt the fabric shift as his mind sent signals down his arm and forced the fingers of his right hand to curl. After two thousand, he could no longer feel the fabric as his mind forced his right hand to lift an inch off the bed. After three thousand, he could feel latex as his mind forced his right hand to rest across his mask. His eyes opened and blinked in confusion as he looked out through the fingers of his left hand.

.:N:.

Quotes:

_Infinite Crisis 5, 2006._


	3. Distortions Chapter 2

_Distortions_ Chapter 2

.:N:.

Over the years, Dick had suffered various injures: head traumas, broken bones; gunshot wounds; internal bleedings; knife, sword, glass, and random sharp object cuts; scraps; and bruises among others. There had been times when he was unable to move due to pain, but he had never actually been unable to move. That was something Barbara had used as a barrier between them. Even though she claimed she had moved on, he could not understand her wheelchair, or so she said. Until that moment, when he had stared at his left hand when he had intended to move his right, he had never felt so betrayed by his -- not _his_ though -- body. Dick thought he understood better at that moment, the feeling of disconnect that made the next breath catch and he had to think for it to be forced out when it became painful.

As if the betrayal of his arm somehow sparked a mutiny in the rest of his body, his body began to shut down and forcing him to take over his autonomic functions. He had to force his lungs to expand to take in oxygen; he had to compel his heart to beat to pump blood to his body; he had to control every last cell of his body. But he couldn't tell his body those things because his motor cortex had been cut off as much as his medulla oblongata. No amount of knowledge was going to fix that. He was only his thoughts without a way to express them. The thoughts were therefore irrelevant. _He _was irrelevant, even if only temporarily.

Air punched its way down his throat and he gasped greedily like he had been without it for minutes instead of seconds. His body was supporting itself again and Dick counted out one hundred heartbeats before the panic left him and he realized that his situation was nothing like Barbara's. Figment Cyborg had assured him that his situation would only last a few days, and it was that which had made Dick take his first breath. Barbara had never had such promises, so her breath had to have come from something else.

A few days in this condition was completely unacceptable.

By the time Figment Starfire returned three hours after her initial departure, Dick had gained some control over his Bizarro -- bizarro, he was not thinking about Superman clones -- body. As she set up the computer and adjusted his hospital bed, she prattled on about what the others had been doing the past few days, the food fights, the video game battles, the training sessions. He listened more intently than he let on. When the Curtains logo filled the computer screen and Figment Starfire was busy telling him a story about something named "Silkie", Dick realized his next problem.

"Starfire, would you mind logging into the database for me?" The spasm that jerked his right arm when he lifted it did not need to be faked.

"Oh." She frowned, but attempted to cover it by biting her lower lip as she spun the laptop around on the side table she had moved for him. The keys clicked as she typed, and Dick memorized the sound each made much like someone would write sheet music for a melody they heard. Once he familiarized himself with that keyboard, he could translate the security codes back.

"Thanks." The T logo on his screen was followed by simple prompts and Dick was certain he could navigate from there. Figment Starfire watched him as he moved the mouse at a snail's pace.

"Do you need me to take the dictation?"

Something twisted in his gut, that same sense of _wrong_ that Dick had experienced earlier. Something about this girl put him on edge, more so than even the other figments. Something that felt slightly like guilt. "No, I'll stick to reviewing old case files until I can type again."

"You spend far too much time in old case files." Her tones was light, almost teasing, but he could still hear the accusation in her voice. She blinked at him, her hands clasped in front of her, and shifted nervously as she spoke. Dick understood she wanted to help and couldn't find the right way to ask.

"If it wouldn't trouble you, I haven't eaten in some time."

"Really?" The idea of a task seemed to cheer her up as she jumped to the air. "I will begin at once." The list of food she was planning to make made his stomach tighten, but Dick knew better than to ask simply for lime Jello. Figment Starfire left while still making her plans, and the room became silent again.

Dick glanced at the screen again, slightly disappointed the answer wasn't obviously staring him in the face. He decided to start with the earliest file.

The story was a fractured memory. The five teens teaming up to save Starfire from the Gordanian slavers, a race which sounded in many ways like the Psions. This team seemed to have joined up more by chance than design, no mentions of Trigon or failed attempts to contact the JLA. There was a good amount of property damage, but not a specific report of Grant and Carol's apartment. Of course, his team hadn't foreseen the troubles that bit of destruction would bring them.

The military style report was familiar: dates; names of those involved; mission parameters, restrictions, and objectives; relevant previous experiences; plans formulated, even if rejected; events of the mission; items utilized; results of the objective; estimated damages to property, teammates, civilians, and opponents; and suggestions for future missions. It was a form Bruce had drilled into him before he had ever been allowed onto the streets.

For his first year as Robin, he had to include another section, which included listing all other possible actions that could have been taken, comparing them to the chosen action, and evaluating the outcomes. No matter how many possibilities Dick wrote, Bruce would always point out a scenario he missed. "You failed to consider Gunman 3's snakeskin shoes." Then the ten year old would be forced to type in the cave another hour before then having to do some math homework. After over a year of extra paperwork, Bruce had grunted at his first draft report and never asked for that dreaded extra section again.

Since then, the few times Batman actually explained his thought process, Dick had made a game of checking off scenarios. "There are twenty-one possible ways to rescue the hostages, ten of which the hostages will remain unharmed, seven of which are not lethal to the criminals, five of which will minimize property damage, two of which will not likely cause harm to ourselves." After leaving Gotham, Dick's estimated numbers in his head were usually one off here or there as he wasn't always caught up on the latest development. Tim would tease him about it whenever he was wrong and Tim had the audacity to be right, which simply earned the teen a head slap. But Dick had never been wrong while he was in the 'Haven. At least not until he was in a stairwell with Blockbuster and Tarantula and there had seemed to be only one option.

But he was supposed to be forgiving himself for that, so Dick returned to the file.

Dick was slightly disappointed to see the file read more like Tim's than style than his own, at least while he had been in the Titans. Tim's files usually lacked a personal touch, only including feelings when he considered himself an expert in the field. Tim was not as bad as Bruce, who included too many minute details to consider leaving room for any emotions. Barbara had wanted to become a cop, and her reports reflected that, though she usually snuck in what she called her Fun Meter during her Batgirl days. For a brief time, Dick had rebelled against the emotionless reports, but when he was forced to write them all again that rebellion was squashed. Then he discovered footnotes and could have up to fifty or so on a single report just for his emotions alone. Bruce had raised an eyebrow when he first read the reports, but hadn't deleted them. Dick took that as a victory.

The other Teen Titans had clearly not been as trained in writing their reports, such as Beast Boy's, "There were explosions, we teamed up to stop bad people, I saved the day, read Robin's crazy file."

In the fifth case files, Dick noticed the Robin entry used the word "enjoy" once, which gave him hope for future files.

The more he had read, the less sure he was of his location.

For Dick, Limbo had been many things: emptiness filled with an image of his inner hatred, memories twisted to break his soul, illusions to hold him in place. One common thread had marked them all, the underlining simplicity of everything. The most complex phenomenon in Limbo were his direct memories, and the further from the truth, the less details the dimension could retain. He had been to Limbo enough to suspect that there was indeed a hallway behind this door, a tower encompassing the hallway, and a world in which the tower stood, and whatever that world was, it wasn't Limbo. The place just didn't feel like Limbo.

Though he wasn't on Earth the last dimensional crisis, he had heard the stories of the world refugees, of the people from the destroyed dimensions who blinked into existence on their world. Barbara had been one. He had supposedly even been one. And he had seen people after death possess other people's bodies, though not usually with the degree of difficulty he seemed to be having. Dick wasn't quite ready to believe his spirit had been transferred to another dimension and stuck in a younger version of himself, but it wasn't like he had a handbook for what happened when someone got shot by a death-ray in the middle of a dimensional crisis. Yet, this world seemed strangely untouched by that crisis, no one mentioning national disasters, countless deaths, or the string of worlds in the sky above Earth. Then there was the problem of what happened to this Earth's Robin.

This Earth's Starfire sheepishly entered, a light blush on her cheeks, and carried a tray with a bowl of lime Jello and a cup of ice water on it. "I was preparing our traditional meal for a wounded warrior, but it disappeared from the kitchen before it was done."

Dick found the word "disappeared" interesting, though not enough to ask for clarification. It was tradition after all: trust a Titans woman in the field, not in the kitchen. Ask Wally to toss together a sandwich in two seconds, ask Roy to grill something, ask Garth to make sushi -- okay, that was just for fun -- he could whip up Alfred's pancakes and make a mean funnel cake, but do not ask Donna to prepare food.

"This is sufficient for now. I mean, I haven't eaten much and I should make sure I can keep this down." He was going to regret this. "When I can, you'll be the first to know."

"I will make another meal for you later, after you get some rest." She seemed pleased though.

"Don't I always?"

"No, but you will this time." With a nod, she left, seemingly satisfied with something.

Despite the slight shake of his hand, Dick noisily sucked the Jello off his spoon. Alfred would disapprove, "Young men do not make noises while they are eating and they certainly do not _slurp_." Dick did it twice more before his inner Alfred got the best of him.

Dick watched the green Jello jiggle on his spoon, thinking of the green eyes that brought it to him. This Starfire was real. She was different, but real. And so was this Robin, and he had just taken over his body.

He realized, as he thought of eyes and body stealing, he had been wrong earlier. There had been one other time he had felt helpless inside his own body. When the sclera of green eyes went black -- black on green on black -- and his body was no longer his own. He hadn't understood at first how his arms and legs could move without him. The Titans had power -- strength, magic, cybernetics, speed -- but Dick hadn't been as overwhelmed by their first displays. He still was trying to understand his situation when Adeline gave the order. _Please don't argue with me, Joseph. There's too much at stake. Hit him!_ His own right fist struck his chin and Dick had cried out in shock.

But there was a moment, after he began to fall to the floor but before Joey had left his body, that he felt entirely comfortable with the situation. Joey felt like an old stuff elephant, worn in sneakers, and the marshmallows on top of hot chocolate. The fear and the pain of losing his body was gone, and, when he had hit the floor, Dick instantly trusted the hand held out to him. _I think I'd be proud to have your help_.

The idea was cliché, childish, and way too chick flick, but he attempted to radiate warmth to his current body, and perhaps even his other self if that was where he was stuck. Because of where and seemingly when he was, Dick tried to remember the good times when he was in his mid teens, instead of seeing it as when it all began to fall apart. He concentrated more on the feeling of solving his first official solo case, of teaming up with Batgirl, of leading his own team of Titans. Not that he wanted to be a teenager again, but as he stopped fighting for control and reconnecting to his past he began to feel more at ease.

It was definitely chick flick, but he couldn't argue with the results as he looked at his now steady hand.

He finished his Jello before deciding he had regained enough control to grab a shower. He swung his legs to the edge of the bed, taking into consideration for the first time the gray sweatpants and white cotton undershirt he was wearing. They both looked impossibly huge on his skinny body, making Dick wonder if he had ever really been this gangly.

He was able to stand and stretch, though his center of gravity was off and his limbs seemed to move freely without his usual muscle density and he was shorter -- when did he have that last growth spurt? The walk to the restroom was more like a toddler learning to walk than he would ever admit and he was grateful he only needed to travel a few feet. He let the door frame support his weight as he glanced around the small room, the sink, toilet, and thankfully a wheel chair accessible shower with a seat. The bathroom had a mirror above the sink and Dick glanced for the first time at his reflection.

There was indeed a Robin's mask on his face with the white lenses he had come to see the word through. The lenses took up an improbable amount of the mask though, and seemed to change shape with his facial expressions more than any other mask Dick had seen. The black hair was short and matted to his head with a few days of sweat. His ears seemed too rounded and the lips were barely a thin line. But despite the differences, Dick could see the resemblance to himself.

A brief rummaging through the medicine cabinet produced a small bottle of solvent and Dick returned his gaze to the mirror.

This was where it all fell apart, he was sure of it. He was going to remove the mask and find he didn't have a face. It would be blank and empty, his eyes and nose and mouth gone. It had all been a setup. He was now in his own personal hell; every mission he was forced on he would fail to step in front of bullets aimed at friend or foe; Barbara would be married to Jason Bard; Tim would join Jason on a killing spree in Gotham; his friends and teammates would all leave the planet to never return; Bruce would have replaced him with a Bat-Hound; and Etrigan the Demon would forever be there in his ear, rhyming about his failures.

Dick took a breath -- after all, how bad could a personal hell be -- and began to spray the solvent.

.:N:.

Quotes:

Wolfman._ Tales of the Teen Titans 44_, 1984.


	4. Distortions Chapter 3 revised

_Distortions_ Chapter 3

.:N:.

Batman never should have let him out of the cave in his former domino masks, the ones he had worn as Robin and with the first two Nightwing uniforms. The proof was blinking back at him in the mirror. He knew his eyes intimately well -- the navy outline of his iris, the powder blue ring around his pupil, the starbursts between which were so blue they were nearly black -- he had had them long enough, seen them long enough, to know that the eyes in the mirror were his own.

For his first lesson in suspect interrogation, Batman had grilled him. The idea had seemed amusing when Bruce explained it to him; all he had to do was answer questions, lying sometimes and being honest others. It wasn't as if Bruce wouldn't know the answers to the questions beforehand -- the man had been there when his parents were murdered and been there since -- and Dick could hardly understand what the exercise would accomplish. He sat down at the table cocky and calm, not in the least intimidated by the darkness which was only held off by the single light above his head. After five minutes of waiting, Dick began to fidget slightly; after ten, he stood up; after fifteen, Dick turned around into Batman.

At the circus, Dick had seen Batman as his vengeance, as an element of the curse made real that he had put on his parent's murderer. In the previous few months, Dick had seen Batman as his mentor, as an element of the new purpose into which he had sworn himself. At that moment, Dick had seen Batman as the legend, as an element of Gotham which made even the most ruthless criminals shake. He had no idea what the criminals saw when they met up with the Dark Knight in an alley -- like if the force of Batman was some kind of inkblot test of a person's fear -- but Dick knew what he saw: nothing. There was an emptiness in Batman that resonated within himself, as if they were that finely tuned, well oiled machine, though it was set at an excitation frequency so close to their own natural frequency, the gears were going to jump and skip and everything would break down. Dick had been less frightened huddled on the floor with his parent's blood and brain matter on him.

Then the questions started, not the ones he had been expecting. Some of the questions were about people and places he knew nothing about, questions about events before he was born. Others were personal, questions about the most difficult moments of his life. Soon, he could feel himself physically vibrating with that emptiness and knew if it kept up he would explode instead of break down. He no longer knew what the questions were or if his answers were true or false, only that he needed to give answers so the questions would stop and the emptiness would go away. And when the world was gone and there was nothing but the light above him and the chair beneath him, and when Dick was certain there was nothing left in the world, and his nine years had never existed, Bruce was suddenly around him. Dick returned the grip without thinking, securing himself to Bruce's chest with his arms and legs. Trying with sweaty palms to push Bruce into that emptiness, that void. Trying to use the man to change his natural frequency so he would never resonate with the nothingness again. If he had been older at the time, Dick might have wondered at his instinctual separation of Bruce and the various Batmans, though that was the last night he had seen the empty Batman until Jason was murdered. _Bruce Wayne is a _mask_ I wear, that I've been wearing since I was a child._ The same Batman Dick refused to see when Vesper had been murdered.

Some people would have called it child abuse, though no more so than anything else that involved him dressing up as a human target for a war on crime. Dick never thought of it as such, there were simply things that needed to be learned and maybe they had both learned something. It had taken Batman two days to give him the rest of the assignment, a video with the instructions to watch himself and determine when he was lying and what indicators were present. Despite the poor lighting conditions, the recording was crisp and the resolution high enough he could zoom in when necessary. The tape, fortunately, did not have sound and he had not yet mastered lip reading, so the actual questioning remained garbled in his head. On his fourth report submission, Bruce had only made corrections to his grammar, and the fifth submission was returned without red marks, so Dick figured the lesson was closed. Half of that report was on his eyes; he had gone over the tape more times zoomed in on the eyes than anything else. The truth had been there.

For his first lesson in subterfuge, Batman had told him he only had to learn to lie to one person and then handed him a mirror. In that mirror, Dick learned to lie to anyone because he first convinced himself it was true. He had to be telling the truth, because he had never taught his eyes to lie. Batman never drilled it into him.

Looking in the bathroom mirror, Dick wondered how anyone who had looked into both Dick Grayson's eyes and Robin's eyes had ever been fooled. There were those heroes who worked without masks and still maintained a secret identity -- Superman came to mind. Tim, even after all the publicity of No Man's Land, could have gone out without a mask and never been recognized. It wasn't because of the glasses or the spiked hair; they were different people in and out of the costume. Those around them found it easier to not see the connection than to see the lie, to dig past the person on the surface. Dick wondered how much Tim was left outside of Robin.

Batman should have put Dick in a full face mask. He never separated Dick from Robin from Nightwing, except in what he wore, but he always wore Dick Grayson in his eyes. That was who was in the eyes in the mirror.

Dick widened his eyes until he could see his entire iris and map all the tiny blood vessels. Keeping his focus on his pupils, he cocked his head slowly to the right. His eyes were locked in place as his skull rotated around them, the glide smooth on his tear fluid. The other Robin could be trapped there, within those eyes, drowning in the sea of blue. But Dick lacked the ability to see the Robin if he was indeed there. He stood at the mirror, his nose almost touching the glass, until his eyes began to water.

No longer able to look at those eyes, Dick slammed his hand against the smooth glass surface, covering the reflection as much as he could. There was a bottle of spirit gum which would hold against extreme conditions, least of all a shower, and he was tempted to reapply the mask. His skin itched in response and he put down the bottle reluctantly.

Dick did, however, cover the mirror with a towel.

.:N:.

Quotes:

Brubaker. _Batman 600_, 2002.


	5. Distortions Chapter 3 cont

_Distortions_ Chapter 3 cont.

.:N:.

Intrinsically, Dick knew blaming inanimate objects for his own short comings accomplished nothing. As he glared at the shirt in a pile under the sink, he didn't care. The accomplishment of walking unaided to the bathroom had been overshadowed first by the mirror, then by his attempt at removing his shirt. He had lacked the coordination to strip off his shirt with any grace. He had had to resort to removing one arm at a time, then almost ducking out of the neck, hearing the fabric creak as it resisted his efforts. By the time he managed to get it off, his arms ached and the shirt was stretched out in three places. He was tempted to kick the shirt from under the sink, but knew he would only probably lose his balance. Instead, he reached into the shower and turned on the water, knowing it would take a moment for the hot water to travel through the tower. The sweatpants were easier to remove and he stepped out of them and slid onto the seat without a second thought.

The spray hit him from three directions, the water pressure high enough he could feel each steam of water where it pricked his skin. In order to keep himself from thinking, Dick began to count the number of feeds from each shower head. Seven minutes later, the heat began to penetrate his muscles and he could feel his body begin to unlock. He moved to massage each muscle group, starting with his arms. When his thumb brushed across his right collarbone, he paid the habitual action no mind until it was met with soft skin. He pressed his thumb into bone until it throbbed in tune with his pulse. Then, pivoting his wrist to drag it across the expanse of his shoulder twice his fears were confirmed -- his movement was only restricted by the natural friction of healthy flesh moving against flesh.

Dick had to look.

Contorting his body, Dick moved his hand slowly away from his collarbone. The water ran smoothly down the shoulder instead of in the little rivers typically formed around his scar. Despite the steam, Dick shivered, a jolt of ice traveling down his spine. There had never been a flu-induced, amateurish approach on a storm filled night; never been the Joker and a bullet; never been a foot tangled in the line between life and death; never been the argument. _A child! I'll say I've been wounded -- plenty of times, but never this deep. _He had never stopped being Robin.

True, this Robin was younger than Dick had been when he was fired, and everyone had called him Robin, and he knew he was Robin, but still, he was _Robin_.

The water began to sting enough to encourage him to look again at the shoulder. His thumbnail had dug a small hole into his skin where a bullet scar should have been, and the cut was becoming irritated. The red hand print stood out on his pale skin and Dick could tell the finger marks would soon bruise.

With the water shut off, Dick could see the rest of his torso better. His body had been a record of his life, a sort of coded Braille scroll only he could translate completely. The scars could go back as far as his circus day. He first searched for the twin scars on his knees from when he was five. He had gotten them while traveling with his father's _kumpania_ during the months the circus was closed. This Robin's set of scars was more visible than his own, less time having passed for this body. He cataloged a few missing scars from his early Robin years and noticed some unknown scars, but he grounded himself in that set of knee scars.

The lines on both his knees were straight and sure. Dick vaguely remembered finding the sharp rock after the townies had come to the camp one night. The cuts had been surprisingly deep and precise for a child's hand, and the lines of blood had reached his feet by the time his father had found him. Neither of his parents understood how he had been trying to separate his father's blood from his mother's, to see if it somehow flowed differently as the townies had suggested. His mother had held him while his father patches his knees and lectured him. "Richard, one day you will come to understand your heritage. From me you know a sense of others, of making a family out of more than blood. From your mother you know a sense of self, of making limitless dreams possible with nothing but your will. You are more complete than either of us by ourselves." From that day, without even understanding all of his father's words, he had bled his heritage into every action.

Dick turned off the memory when he turned the shower back on, the cold water making him jump. He scrubbed his body and hair clean as quickly as he could move his hands, snapped the water off again, and managed to reach a towel to pat himself dry. It occurred to him then that he lacked clean clothes to change into, so with a sigh and a sniff test, he stepped back into the discarded sweatpants. After a little more searching, Dick cleaned and covered the small hole his fingernail had made, then retrieved his shirt. Not feeling up to wrestling with it again, Dick laid it across his shoulder, carefully arranging it to hide the growing bruise. Against his better judgment, he drew the towel across the mirror in a single swipe so he could see to apply the mask. The glue job was haphazard at best and would never have held on the streets, but would manage for the tower.

.:N:.

Quotes:

Collins. _Batman 408_, 1987.


	6. Distortions Chapter 4

_Distortions _Chapter 4

.:N:.

The empty room swallowed him greedily, as if it was desperate for some sort of companionship. Upon reflection, Dick would have suspected it was more a condition of his one day agoraphobia than a sort of malefice on the room's part. Which was precisely why he was not reflecting upon it. He had walked at least ten miles into the room from the odd, five-sided door, and made no progress towards the full window wall across from it. If he turned around to look back at that odd, five-sided door, he suspected he would be no closer to it than the full window wall. Which was precisely why he was not turning around.

After his shower, he had stopped back at the laptop to find directions to this Robin's room. From the time when Vic's father built Titans Tower, Dick had a room there as long as he was on the team and, he knew, even during the time when Roy had taken over the team. Dick had never lived at the tower, having first the dorm, then his own apartment -- even if it was in Bruce's name, and -- for a brief time -- Kory's apartment after his own apartment was rented to someone who didn't disappear off the planet for months at a time. But this Robin seemed too young for any of that, and Dick thought about his original Teen Titans and the more weekend clubhouse setup they had, as they all commuted between it and their respective guardians homes. No one had mentioned Batman or Gotham, a fact which was beginning to make him nervous, considering if he was going back to Gotham, someone would have made some smart comment about his condition and training with Batman. Unless these Titans weren't like that, the thought of which made that window wall seem further away, even though he was standing still. He took stock of the rest of the room to prevent the need to breathe into a paper bag.

In front of the window was a bed with a wooden headboard against a pearl white wall. The dresser was also wooden, as were the shelves on the wall near the door. All the walls were empty, as were the shelves, though maybe it wasn't so much shelves as Asian influenced decoration. Decoration was a bit much to be hoping for, though. _You've kept your Outsiders digs pretty spartian. The rest of the gang have made theirs a little more homey._ The most personal object in the room was the beige speed bag above the dresser, which lacked a label and looked more like it belonged in a store than in a room where someone might actually use it. _I have a home. This is a place to sleep… if I need it. _Dick hoped the tower was a weekend place, because the room looked less lived in than most hotels -- if the hotel room was located on some remote glacier.

Apparently, this Robin's inner Alfred was a bit more stubborn; the room was spotless. _This is a completely certifiable mess. My life is so_orderly_, my approach to events so structured -- I need a place where, well, _chaos_ rules._ Then again, Dick had to wonder if this Robin owned anything to even make a mess. He considered the rumpled shirt on the floor a small step towards besmirching the room's order. As if dropping the shirt on the floor had been some sort of secret signal, the walls snapped back into place around him. The mirrored wall was also the closet, and since it finally seemed within walking distance, he took a few steps towards it. Dick drew the door back.

He shivered as the jolt of ice worked down his spine again. Hanging in the closet was a long row of Robin uniforms, distinct Robin uniforms with _pants._ Dick couldn't tell if he was more disturbed by the sheer number of uniforms or that it was nearly Tim's uniform. Sure, Dick had a few specialized suits, such as the artic insulated suit, and of course he had backups, but nothing along this line; this was near Bruce paranoia. This Robin would never be called "Short-Pants." Though his friends teased him about his supposed fashion faux pau, he wondered if they ever considered the Robin uniform was designed because he _hated_ tights. After a decade of the same uniform, it had been time to add pants when he became Nightwing, but there were still some nights he regretted it. And he had to admit, Tim's addition of black to the cape was conductive to stealth, though he had never been bothered enough to consider doing it himself.

Picking a hanger up as if the suit contained smallpox, Dick was relieved to see there were other differences from Tim's uniform. This one wasn't as armored and, most fortunately, the stylized R on the tunic wasn't pointed. The shoes, the ones neatly arranged in rows along the closet wall, Jason could've designed those shoes. Dick had been surprised to find a steel toe in Jason's "pixie boots" -- the steel toe suited Jason and his fighting style, just not the shoes themselves. His observations could, admittedly, have been tainted by his relationship with Bruce at the time. He tossed the hanger and shoe back into the closet and closed the door firmly.

The dressers were practically empty, but Dick found another pair of sweatpants to change into and a black button down shirt which he slid on, buttoning it up to make sure his shoulder was covered.

He booted up the desktop, for the first time aware of the computer technology on this world. It had been careless for him to ask for a computer earlier, even if he had thought it was Limbo. Had someone asked for a computer to be brought to them in the sick bay back when he was in his teens, well, that person would have been found out as a fraud. Dick grinned for a moment, remembering the cumbersome equipment and bulky helicopter the Teen Titans had started out with. The internet and web cameras were definitely a nice improvement. He dialed the cave with a few clicks.

The idea of calling was not one of his bests, though he wondered if any of them had been since he arrived, or whatever he had done to get here -- here in the sense of this world. He wasn't sure what this Robin's relationship was like with this Batman, nor did he even know that Bruce Wayne _was _Batman -- or vice versa, depending how one thought of it. Before leaving the sick bay to find this Robin's room, Dick had done a search in the Titan's database for "Batman."

There had been only one hit: Robin's personnel file. Batman was listed under "trained by" and "former associate." After reading "former," Dick had a more difficult time reading the rest of the file. Robin's real name was left out of the file, and Dick was almost sad to see no family listed, though he had done the secret identity thing with teams before -- had just been doing it before quitting the Outsiders. And even with his version of this Teen Titans, his personnel file had been empty, despite the fact that half the team had known who he was and the other half knew simply because there was no reason to hide it from them; Raven had been calling him Richard since the first time she appeared before him, sometime after he had first dreamt of her. Yet somehow, Dick was reading into that blank identity line as if it was similar to his relationship with the Outsiders, and he attempted to digest that _this_ team could somehow not know his identity and found himself unable to.

The urge to stop reading had intensified when he read "though proficient in numerous weapons, Robin prefers the bo staff." He had only added a hand weapon, the escrima sticks, to his gear with his latest Nightwing uniform, Tim's weapon fetish finally wearing off on him. Though this Robin probably chose the bo staff for similar reasons to Tim, the similarities between this Robin and Tim had made his fingers shake.

Thinking back on that moment made his fingers shake. He was about to cut the call when it was answered by a familiar arched eyebrow.

"Young Master Robin." Alfred's unmistakable English accent steadied Dick's hand.

"This connection secure?"

"You should know, Master Dick."

Dick felt his back muscles loosen as that secret fear, the fear that he was in fact in Jason's or Tim's body, was relieved. With a slight wince, he pulled the mask off. "How have you been, Alfred?"

"As well as can be expected when my charge insists on courting death nightly and alone."

While it was obvious that Batman hadn't replaced Robin, so far, Dick had been curious if there was a Batboy or some other such dynamic duo. Now, he wondered if "alone" had meant without even Batgirl, and he was struck by a desire to ask about Babs. Would that seem suspicious? "I'm sorry." He wasn't sure what the apology was for.

"It is none of your immediate concern, dear boy. I am rather curious as to your call. You usually make your calls to me on the manor line and I do not believe you have called this line since you left."

"Is, uh, Batman in?"

"I am afraid Master Bruce is out on his patrols."

"It's only seven, is there something going on?" Dick was fairly certain this Robin would be uninformed if there was a latest crime spree in Gotham, so the question would be safe.

"I fear you do not call often enough, otherwise you would remember the three hour time difference."

What time difference? He hadn't recognized the name Jump City in the files, but that could be because it was located on the Pacific. That would make it Titans West. He was part of Titans West. Not that Titans West was bad, more unorganized than bad, which might actually be bad for him, but Titans _West_? "Oh." He hadn't seen Bette on the roster, though there were still many files in which she could be hiding in. She was nice enough and had proven herself against all odds, but Dick wouldn't be able to deal with her affection, if there was indeed a Flamebird with a crush on him here.

"I could patch you through to his communicator."

"No, no, don't. This was a mistake. I just -- don't tell him I called."

"Very well, sir. Though if he should ask specifically if _you_ called during a deleted time period in his log, I will not lie to him."

"Thanks, Alfred. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"I shutter to think. Have a good evening."

"You too."

Dick felt alone again when the connection was closed, confident Alfred was busy deleting the call from the log as promised. There was a slight tinge of guilt at putting his friend in between him and Bruce, knowing the pain it had caused his own Alfred when things went badly. But the information he had gotten from the short conversation was invaluable.

This young Robin was estranged from Bruce and had gotten further away from the Batman's shadow than Dick had at any age. Unless there were some JLA-like transporters, this Robin wasn't at Batman's every call, under his every scrutiny. And, maybe, this Robin would even get to keep his own name; he clearly hadn't been fired yet. Of course, Dick had never thought Batman could take Robin from him, so maybe this was all hopeful thinking.

Perhaps, had Jason attempted to come up with his own name when he became Batman's partner, things would've been better. Perhaps if Dick had gotten to suggest using Robin instead of Batman just calling Jason "Robin" one day, he would've stuck around to help train Jason. Perhaps if Batman hadn't thrown his new Robin in Dick's face just days after Dick had even designed Nightwing, perhaps then he could've helped keep Jason alive. Yeah, that would've happened on a world where Jason was also blond.

He glared at his reflection in the closet doors and what was behind them. Robin. This kid was Robin and Batman was running around half crazed, like after Jason's death for all Dick knew. Didn't the kid care? Not that he had done much better with his own life, what could he tell this Robin to do much better?

He pulled up a new text file.

**Robin, 5 Steps to Happiness I Screwed Up**

**5. Never let anyone, especially Starfire, give you a mullet. If someone does, shake them repeatedly until they change. Speed up the process by tossing the word "mirage" around.**

**4. Convince Batgirl to go into home security and create several traps targeted at criminal clowns. Be sure to have her install it anywhere her and her father live.**

**3. Be aware of prepubescent boys with cameras. It might be a good idea to shake them as well.**

**2. Avoid all baby frogs and female spiders.**

**1. Never grow up.**

He shut the file without rereading it or saving it, wondering if that's really to what his life came down; if that was where this Robin's life was going to go. Not caring to think anymore, Dick gave into the exhaustion of his mind and body. As his head hit the pillow, he was only aware that he had to make tomorrow different.

.:N:.

Quotes:

Winick. _Outsiders 16_, 2004.

Wolfman. _The New Titans 65_, 1990.


	7. Distortions Chapter 5

_Distortions_ Chapter 5

.:N:.

Teenagers were not meant to drink coffee. Dick understood that it was the current "in" thing to do, more so than when he had been a teen at least, but understanding didn't stop the twitch in his left leg or the buzz behind his eyes. The buzz wouldn't allow him to even blink -- slightly helpful since he was attempting to read this Robin's coded journal, unhelpful since the rest of his body was pulling him towards a nap. Yes, teenagers were so not meant to drink caffeine. He vowed to only buy Tim caffeine free Zesti from that moment on; he was not going to be responsible for supplying the teen with drugs any longer.

Perhaps, for the sake of Tim's future caffeinated highs, he could be convinced that only this teen wasn't meant to drink coffee, or at least the amount Dick had consumed without thought a few hours earlier that morning. Which brought to focus the asynchronous mind and body from which he was suffering; a body he was ignorant of behaviorally. But, if the caffeine induced currents running through his body were any indication, the body itself knew its own idiosyncrasies. Dick just hoped the lack of caffeine conditioning was not a sign of some larger "my body is a temple" syndrome. He did not wish to become ill from pizza, cheese steak, and cheap Chinese takeout, his three major food groups away from Alfred's watchful eye.

He had found himself awake at oh-four-thirty with the discovery that, though he was distinctly aware he was misplaced, the feeling had dulled to wearing someone else's clothes. Clothes which were still too tight in all the wrong places. Dick could not remember the last time he got out of bed instead of falling into it before sunrise . The change was welcome as the early morning did provide him an opportunity for a workout before the others discovered him mobile and tied him to the bed. A brief glance at his purpling shoulder indicated he would have to watch his upper body stretches, a fact he begrudgingly accepted as he made his way to the kitchen. One ransack of said room later and he had found no coffee, the second search proving that fact. The lack of coffee should have been a sign, with all his training should have at least made him contemplate the why of the situation. But starting the day at four in the morning was a foreign enough concept, without even factoring in the rest of his surroundings, that not having a mug of coffee was inconceivable. Unsure of this body's limits, Dick had not planned to leave the tower for his workout. Collapsing somewhere in an unknown city was not an effective way to learn of his surroundings, but he decided to disregard the risk.

With the first step outside the tower into this world, Dick breathed in the ocean. Having lived in a harbor city for nearly two decades, he was unprepared for the assault on his senses. There was no surprise that the coastal cities of the Atlantic and the Pacific would have different atmospheres, that the humidity and pollution would hang differently in the air, or that he would be aware enough to notice the changes. His body breathed in the air, processing the salt and the fumes with practiced ease, though his mind was filled with new sensory information. He longed for the tang of salt water taffy and the New Jersey air.

His cheeks filled with an ashamed blush as he realized he had fallen victim to the typical east coast/west coast disgust for each other, a betrayal to his nomadic birth. Gotham had become home because it was where Bruce lived. New York because it was where the Titans lived. Blüdhaven because it was where Dick Grayson -- the tenant, the landowner, the bartender, the rookie cop, the vigilante -- lived. It was the city he ultimately died in, long before he heard of Alexander Luther, Jr., a death at the hands of Deathstroke, Blockbuster, Tarantula, and himself. He should hardly be falling into a location prejudice when he no longer had a home.

Once on the mainland, he chose a random direction and headed off in a light jog. When he felt he was beyond the tower surveillance, he slipped inside a phone booth. Unable to help his grin at the unoriginal thoughts of Superman as he removed his mask, he transformed himself into just another teen in sweatpants.

He passed eleven autocratic coffee houses before he found it: the small twenty-four hour diner most would describe as a hole in the wall. Six sets of eyes followed his progress inside, though five sets did so in a manner an untrained observer wouldn't recognize. Those five belonged to police officers, though only four of them were dressed as street cops. The welcome was not unanticipated considering the diner was within spitting distance of the local precinct. Dick surveyed the room as well, numbering the people watching him and identifying all exits with a practice to which even most veteran officers would be oblivious. The three seats best suited for observation were taken, so he chose a poorly positioned seat at the counter which left his back open to the door. He tightened his shoulders when he sat, drummed the counter with his fingers, and let his eyes dart around the diner without making contact for more than a few seconds; a teen strategically seated and comfortable in a cop diner in the early morning would appear hinky. When the officers' eyes shifted off him, the sixth set of eyes -- the waitress -- walked towards him. He knew he had been analyzed and accepted, at least enough to earn service and some privacy.

The waitress looked and sounded like every other small diner waitress, attempted to make small talk like every other small diner waitress, and settled his coffee mug in front of him with a wrist snap like every other small diner waitress. Dick gazed into his mug like every other small diner customer, losing himself in the role. The only mark of the passage of time was the small pile of empty sugar packets as he fought the battle between cup refills and the flavor which allowed him to drink his coffee.

Alfred had spoiled them at the manor with coffee from the freshest beans and brewed with some special method only known to the butler. Dick would not have sniggered to find out that the secret method was something like "love," as he suspected that was Alfred's every secret method. It was near sacrilege to drink Alfred's coffee any way but black, therefore, Dick's need for sugar came after he had his own apartment and embarrassing struggles with his coffee maker.

Most people off the street would need more than a few packs of sugar to make the coffee drinkable; a cop diner shared the precinct's penchant for coffee sludge. Dick was convinced the department would fall apart without overly bitter, thick coffee with just enough grinds in it to add a crunch with every sip. He was unsure exactly how one set about making bad coffee; even he had mastered making decent coffee with the basic dump and pour method. Of course, he could have figured the how out, would figure it out if it was ever required for a case, but he hoped he would never would. An unanswered question like how to make bad coffee was rare for a curious mind like his, but he enjoyed not knowing. He doubted most people would ever even form the question let alone ponder it for so long without planning to answer it; no one was going to contemplate bad coffee like the meaning of life. Yet, bad coffee was all part of the mystic of the job, a job which most experienced people would never describe as having a mystic. Dick was, at that moment, adding an abnormal amount of sugar for himself. The first sip proved his addiction was more in his mind than his body, the pungent taste registering foreign to his tongue. He most likely should have stopped himself at that observation, would have saved himself a lot of trouble later if he had, but he felt more comfortable at the small diner -- one he had never been in before -- than in the tower -- a tower so similar to his own -- he was disinclined to care.

Having had four or so lives and obligations, Dick found himself highly reliant on coffee when he had been a uniform. Still, despite the wisdom of Bruce and Barbara when they told him to quit, despite knowing he would burnout, he was unable to give up the force. Not that he could do more good on the force, or -- despite the fact that Dick Grayson was far more than a mask -- that he needed something more to his name than heir to a playboy's fortune, but something held him there. Maybe the police oath simply held a greater thrall over him than a child's oath on a set of graves. He never saw himself voluntarily quitting the superhero gig, but he was aware of the incessant mission which would consume him as long as he was one, so similar and yet so different to the badge.

No one could deny he had a knack for the police job, all the way down to drinking the coffee. Even after his main objective of cleaning out the department had been accomplished, Dick's commitment to the job had not waned. He could say without ego that the city had lost an assent when he turned in his badge. The sting of failure should have lessened over time, after all he had been fired from most everything he endeavored: Robin, leader of the Titans, leader of the Outsiders, an officer. Yet those same people who rejected him kept asking him back, or at least accepting him: Nightwing, a new team, unquestioning and immediate compliance with his orders, the offer of a returned badge and gun. Only Amy's double entendre had kept him from accepting them back, the desire to return to that life almost overriding his other objectives. His body ached as he had to turn down his badge a second time, but that rejection did give him one thing. No matter how badly things had turned out because he had _lost sight of the value of Roland Desmond's life_, he had never intended for Blockbuster to die. If he had, he would have taken the protection of the force when Amy had offered it to him, disguised with pretty words and a shiny badge. The thought wasn't much, but it was something he could nurse with the coffee, something to help him remember the value of his own life.

He was under orders to do so.

The journal trembled lightly in time with his leg, the tremors transmitted through the bed on which Dick was resting. He had found the book after returning to the still sleeping tower and stretching out the fatigue in his overworked body. The journal, leather bound in black and marked with a golden VI on the spine, had only recently been started. The seven pages which were filled revealed little about his counterpart and gave no indication where he could find the first five volumes. Overall, the writing told him more about his counterpart than the words did.

He had recognized the code immediately as the one he had designed under Alfred's tutelage. The script flowed evenly over the pages, sharp edges tempered by gentle curves, more a child's scribble than a recognized written language. The code was one of movement, the shape of the design meaning less than the rhythm it was written with, the speed, angle, and pauses translated through the fountain pen. The words were weaved back and forth through the lines on the page, the pen never leaving the paper until the page was filled. The writer had know before beginning a page what was to be said as unplanned pauses would ruin the sequence and wreck the entire page. To that end, the journal was palm sized, but thick. As far as Dick knew, only he and Alfred could read the code. He was mildly curious how long it would take Batman to decipher it. Since a former member of the British Secret Service approved, Dick suspected it would take a decent effort.

The code's true strength was not in its ability to hide what was written, but in preventing an outside party from giving false information. The writing process required a confident hand and a quick mind, the style difficult to forge. The code was most likely wasted on simple journal entries intended only to be read by the person who wrote them, but Dick recognized that strength would now help him leave something behind for his other self to trust when everything returned to normal. He pulled out a fountain pen.

**Day Two**

**Ryeka,**

**Honestly, I've been thinking of you in my head as "this world's Robin" for nearly a day now, just calling you Robin or Dick gets too confusing. I never took to the name "Ryeka" myself, but I hope you won't mind it as much as I.**

**So what do you first say to the alternate version of yourself who is missing while you inhabit his body? Because that's near as I can figure as what's going on without having the slightest clue of the how let alone the why of the situation.**

**I've dealt with enough alternate realities and future timelines to know that, though the patterns are similar, my life isn't yours. Implanting ideas in your head about your future based on my own would be unfair. I am nearly a decade older than you, the difference just pointing to time and space plotlines which are rather bothersome. My last memories are of a battle for the multiverse, which could be the most basic explanation. From what I've seen of this universe, I'd say your universe and mine diverged from each other recently, though most likely before you were born.**

**I haven't spoken to your team about our situations yet, though I have reasonably ruled out any other possibility than the one I described above. Some time ago I had to accept that not all alternate versions of myself would share my same values, though I have no indications that this Teen Titans is morally on the other side. Soon your friends will realize I've only eaten Jello since I awoke, and they will hunt me down, and I'm not sure what to say to them. I'm not even sure they will believe or be equipped to help.**

**For the time being, I'm attempting to learn as much about your world as I can and why I was drawn to this particular time and place. I suspect it has something to do with that device Cyborg discovered and will ask for his report. I've also decided I need to retrain myself from the beginning, back to walking on my hands and to walking on wires, as I am more a liability than an asset with this body. I suspect as my mind and your body have gone though similar training, the process will not take long.**

**You might know all this, considering you could be as stuck in my body as I was in yours. I hope these words do not end up some odd letter to your family if you have indeed moved on permanently.**

**Dick**

.:N:.

Quotes:

Grayson. _Nightwing 117_, 2006.


	8. Distortions Chapter 6

_Distortions_ Chapter 6

.:N:.

He had lied to them all.

No, that wasn't right. Dick's education would not let him fall for such a simple mind trap. They had simply believed what they wanted, as always, what was easiest for them. And Dick, despite knowing that their conclusions were wrong, simply let them believe what they wanted. After all, they never asked directly what the change was about, and he was careful to never give them a reason.

Dick knew the difference between telling a lie and not telling the truth. He was trained to know the difference. He was trained to use that difference to his advantage. He was trained not to have guilt for having that advantage, no matter the methods of attaining it. He _was_ trained in guilt for being human, for not being perfect, for not being able to save everyone. Dick thought that he learned that guilt through emulation, and not as a part of Batman's designed coursework.

Somewhere amid his life, that training had all fallen apart. Somewhere, he had learned the lesson wrong, and acquired the skills improperly, and toppled the entire program. Somewhere, he had moved beyond the training and the emulating to the point where he would never be Batman, or the idealistic image of a crime fighter Bruce had in his head, or even the idealistic image Dick had in his head. All that training and emulating got him to that particular point in time and space: in Ryeka's small personal bathroom the evening of the second day he was aware of being trapped Ryeka's body. Yet none of his training specified he should be in front of a mirror, desperately staring at his reflection.

His childhood sounded so inhuman when he thought of himself as the product of training. He therefore never thought of himself that way. Psychology would dictate that everyone was a product of their childhood, though Dick could see his being held up as some sort of twisted example. Not that he thought of it as twisted; he had long ago accepted that while he never wished for his parents to die, he would not trade Bruce for them. Perhaps, then, his parents were to blame for those incomplete lessons. Something they instilled in him conflicted with some primary component of his directives and he ended up becoming himself instead of what was intended. Eight years in the circus with his parents had somehow made him impure and defective in ways the curriculum did not anticipate and amend.

Before, Dick would've held this up as a point of pride. Like a child of the sixties, he had avoided the corporate machine that turned out happy-happy consumers in boxes. Only, Batman was hardly a corporate machine and Robin was the first sidekick and hardly in a box, but the point was the same. The pride was the same. Regardless of his guilt at being only human, Dick was content. He knew the precise list of warriors who could physically beat him, of masterminds who could mentally beat him, and the observers who could exploit his every flaw. Each list had a handful of people on it and he preferred it that way. Bruce, Conner, Cassandra, and even Barbara had shown him what life was like to have virtually no one on those lists. There lives were more proof his decision not to be the best was correct. In fact, the only list that was empty -- and he could say it without ego -- was the list of aerialists who could out perform him. But he had never competed for that title, nor did he have gymnasts knocking down his door in the middle of the night to have competitions. While the Flying Graysons were still spoken of in whispers among the carnies, the outside world had all but forgotten his abilities. It was an imperative reality for his night activities, and his only regret was that he didn't have the fame as a tribute to his parents.

As for villains on the lists, Dick didn't have to have the advantage to prevail. And if he couldn't do it alone, he knew exactly on whom to rely. Or so he had thought until his life had been dissected piece by piece and a piece of his lie was exposed. The lie of being a leader and a teammate and a member of a family, because -- when he lost everything and had nothing left -- he had found himself alone and hesitant to ask for help. His one attempt to reach out after the fire had been foolish at best; his motives only pure until it was pointed out to him that they weren't. All that effort into proving he could take care of his own city, all that talk of going it alone after Donna had died, all of it turned out only to be a posture since what he really wanted was for someone to notice. Notice beyond a roof over his head for the night or a change of clothes and some kind words, but fate was cruel when she wrote his story.

And when the fire had burnt out and the building rubble had settled and the last threads of his relationship had been torn, he had done something that had never been a lie; he had run.

The training could not account for his running, but it was there just the same. It had been since his first conflict with Bruce and he was old enough to grab his bike and just go. Dick had run back to the circus countless times, taken a road trip across the States, and had once found himself in Rio. The fact that he had followed Kory there hardly made it any less running away when he considered the position he had left the Titans. True, he found himself there -- he always found himself when he ran -- and returned of his own will. But that time when he had run with Catalina, finding himself was a lie. He was literally a stroke of the pen from signing his life away when his phone rang, and for the first time he had to be saved from his escape.

He could say that he was disgusted by the war that had inadvertently saved him, but sacrificed so many lives, including Stephanie's. Lie, he had began his own war game against his city that had twisted the faith of a teenage girl and, at the end, sacrificed as many lives. He could say that he was confident about turning Rose against her father. Lie, he wondered who could have converted him from Bruce and what right they would have had to do so. He could say that he had saved Batman's life entirely selflessly. Lie, he had died in penance for being human.

Death was not penance enough, otherwise he would not be at that particular point in time and space: in Ryeka's small personal bathroom the evening of the second day he was aware of being trapped Ryeka's body.

He was the Boy Wonder again, staring in awe for the first time at his face in the mirror as he lied to himself so it would be the truth. There was no way for Dick to describe the power behind that image, the moment when Bruce had him look at his reflection and understand just to whom he had to lie. Then again, the training might have brought him back to the mirror, as -- well over a decade later -- he was still hypnotized by his own reflection. It was part of the reason he was not actively aware of his looks, because he would fall victim to the boy and the mirror. But the Boy Wonder was stuck in the mind of the Twenty-Something Wonder, who was staring out of the body of the Teen Wonder, into the reflection of the boy.

The circle brought him back to where he started. A puff of air from his pursed lips dislodged the few short hairs plastered to his forehead, his starting point, the lie he was concentrating on among all the others: the lie about his hair.

Odd that his hair had not bothered him the previous two days, but then again, he had only seen it in quick glimpses plastered to his head from sweat or spiked randomly from sleep. But he had looked in the mirror nearly half an hour earlier and seen the truth there and hadn't moved his eyes since. Two little cowlicks fell down above his eyes, curling in towards each other. The same two cowlicks Dick had grown his hair out to purge from his image.

They had all assumed growing his hair long was an outer manifestation of an inner change. Considering the state of his life when he first began to let his hair grow, the conclusion seemed sound. In fact, if growing his hair was a subconscious outer manifestation of an inner change, his lie would not be a lie at all. But subconscious decisions like that were dangerous and, therefore, had been trained out of him.

It had started out innocent enough. The cowlicks had made him look young and innocent, the same innocence from which the whole affair had started. On some good days, his plan even worked and he could pull his hair back in a smooth line from his face. On most days though, those tufts of hair had refused to grow and instead of the curls falling on his forehead, the hair fell in his eyes. Even after his plan had failed and caused him more trouble, Dick didn't bother to get it cut. Sure, he got it trimmed and kept his hair orderly, but as much as he though about it, as much as he wanted it short again, he could never bring himself to request the cut.

Fortunately, Foxy didn't wait for him to ask.

The idea had come to him then, slowly as he spent his nights cleaning up Blackmask from his newly claimed city. People reacted to him differently based on his hair. Not just the Bat Clan or his former teammates or the police department, but the people he passed for a few seconds on the street. Dick could control their reactions to him, needed that control.

He hated himself when he controlled information and manipulated his friends and teammates. But the hatred only came when he had finished the necessary task and the training relaxed, or when he was lecturing Bruce for doing the same thing. Those around him all thought the same sentence during those moments, the same thought, "if Dick could only see how much like Bruce he is." The thought came with a hidden, guilty, sorrowful look in the eyes, no matter who was thinking it. He had been reading the thought so long there wasn't a person who could hide it from him. That was another one of his lists, the list of similarities between himself and Bruce, and that control was near the top of the list. While he could not change his nature, he could exercise it harmlessly, most of the time, though his hair.

The scheme did require more planning than an observer would think. While relatively easy to shorten his hair, months were required to grow it past his ears again and start the cycle over. Those closest to him were the most observant though, and even an inch in length would signal them. Tim and Alfred especially read his hair length as a sign of rebellion, an unconscious sign of rebellion, and reacted to him accordingly. The idea that he would do it consciously was undoubtedly absurd, not only because the idea of controlling people though hair was absurd, but because Dick was highly unaware of the impact of his looks. Which was true, except for his hair.

Tim might not actually find the idea of controlling people through hair ridiculous. The time and hair gel spent on making those haphazard spikes look casual was evidence enough of Tim's attempt to separate Tim Drake from Robin. In that way, Tim was again so like what Dick had learned of Ryeka -- the spikes, the separation, the mission. Dick had seen Tim's potential early on, maybe from the moment the teen tracked him to the circus and certainly during their early training session together when they sat for seven hours outside the park. The potential to be Batman, something that Dick lacked, the ability to toss everything away for the mission.

Back then, Tim still had parents and a home and security. In many ways, even with parents, Tim had as little as Dick did when he became an orphan. How else could a boy stalk a vigilante for years without the boy's parents finding out? But still, his parents had both been alive and Tim had been young, and Dick was hardly going to encourage Tim's potential to lose himself as Bruce had done. So he had hidden it, worked hard to help Tim become his own Robin, to fit into Batman's well oiled machine, just not all the way. The two worked well together, but not on the same level Dick and Bruce had.

The assessment had caused unforeseen consequences, such as when Spoiler was told of Tim's identity, and Bruce was charged of murder, and when Jack Drake took Robin from Tim. In the end, Tim no longer had those things Dick was afraid to let him lose, and Tim only had Robin. An incomplete Robin because of Dick's decision. Another problem to be fixed when he returned.

Dick was still unsure of how to return. There were case reports to read and questions to ask and stories to tell, and yet he was doing none of those things at that particular point in time and space: in Ryeka's small personal bathroom the evening of the second day he was aware of being trapped Ryeka's body. He was not doing those things because he was thinking about the lie of his hair, not the lie of his existence to the people he had just eaten dinner with.

After writing in Ryeka's journal, Dick had felt the pull of oblivion and crashed hard, with little warning. Only Cyborg's incessant pounding on his door nearly six hours later brought him around. The lethargy remained though, and his body felt heavier and more tired than before he slept. But still he let the teenager drag him to the living room and drop him on the couch in front of a stack of pizzas the rest were gathered around. His exhaustion and hunger warred with each other as he tried to find the energy to eat. His so called teammates seemed subdued for the meal, and though he should have been paying attention and learning from them, Dick zoned. He made small comments when it was clear it was expected of him, but he kept bracing himself for someone to ask who he was, to demand to know where Ryeka was, or at least to explain his behavior over the past two days. They never asked, and although they did not seem comfortable with having a leader suffering from a recent near death experience, they seemed comfortable with him. And he seemed comfortable enough with them to let himself doze on the couch after eating two pieces of pizza. No one mentioned anything at all about his behavior until Beast Boy made an offhanded comment as he walked Dick back to Ryeka's room. An offhanded comment about the state of Dick's hair, a light teasing for its state of disarray. A light teasing which brought him to that particular point in time and space: in Ryeka's small personal bathroom the evening of the second day he was aware of being trapped Ryeka's body.

Dick thought about the lie of his hair, _not_ as an attempt to transfer his thoughts from the lie to his supposed teammates, but _because_ his hair was in disarray. If he thought about the lie to his supposed teammates, he would have to think about the situation in which one of his own teammates had been replaced. If he thought about Mirage and her deceit in her attempt to kill Donna, then he might have to remember his own pain at her actions. If he thought about his pain, then he might not survive being the catalyst of it for others.

So he thought about the lie of his hair as he used the gel to slick back the two cowlicks which fell above his eyes. He parted his hair on the left side and combed his hair flat.

.:N:.


	9. Distortions Chapter 7

_Distortions_ Chapter 7

.:N:.

The room began to spin -- hand, hand. The room snapped back into place -- foot, foot. The room crashed towards the platform.

Hand.

Sweat blurred his vision. Dick blinked until his eyes could follow the line of tension down his right arm as it branched into his hand and fingers. The line separated the platform and the training mats ten feet below him. Not that the height was dangerous, but the fall would have been precarious just the same. If his momentum had shifted his body any more to the right, or his hand set down any more to the left, he would have simply tumbled off the platform. Fortunately, his reflexes had saved him from almost a complete failure, as had all the previous saves which left him clinging to the words "almost" and "complete" as well at the edge of the platform. While he knew not to dwell on his failures during training, the knowledge did little to appease his inner judge; His score card had a big, block number zero on it. He had never been so unsuccessful with the basics -- the material his father taught him before he could walk.

Rolling his body back onto the platform, Dick felt the wave of needle pricks wash over his skin signifying his exhaustion. He had been pushing himself all morning and it was beginning to show, even in his reflexes. There was a time to push past his physical limits and a time to give into it; Dick rolled over again and set the platform controls to return to the ground.

Though he preferred to train on traditional equipment, the training platforms had caught Dick's eyes as soon as he walked in the room. Cyborg had probably designed them to Ryeka's specifications. They were a series of platforms where the user could control every aspect of them, from their size to their height to their movement. His father had always reminded him, "An Olympic performer can do their routine perfectly under the same set of conditions. But we must change our routine to be perfect under any condition." The philosophy was the key to Nightwing's fluid movements through apartments, down fire escapes, across rooftops, through parks, across highways, and anywhere else the chase would lead him. His father did not train him just to stay in the lines, but to plan for the line to move around objects and over potholes. The conditions of the streets during the parade would not always be ideal.

The platforms were the new technological way to practice his father's lessons. Yet even with the large, stationary platforms, Dick had almost fallen. The countless times his body had been broken, Dick had relied on the training in his mind to retrain his body. With his thoughts broken from his body, his training remained slow and arduous.

Dick snatched a white terrycloth towel from the stack, careful to pat his face dry so he wouldn't pull on the mask. Meticulously stretching each tired muscle, he dried his neck and arms leaving only a thin layer of sweat to catch the tower's cooling air. Only when he paused to locate the towel hamper did Dick notice the sameness of the towel. This Titan's gym was entirely different from the equipment to the location of the towel rack, but the towels' scent was Titan Tower. In fact, so had his sheets' scent when he stopped to think about it. No matter if it was a weekend club house, the first tower, or the latest tower, the Titans used the same fabric softener, and apparently it applied across dimensions. All those times the Titans were near financial ruin, they could've been doing endorsement deals for fabric softener. The idea was ludicrous and trivial in the scheme of things. He had far more to worry about than the laundry.

As he walked out the door, Dick grabbed a clean towel and wrapped it around his neck. Unconcerned with how he looked smelling the towel as he walked, Dick navigated to the roof.

The towel's scent somehow countered the wrongness of the ocean air that hit him when he opened the outside door. Dropping the towel back to his shoulders, Dick moved to the railing and peered over, watching the waves crash onto the rocks below. No matter the ocean, the scene was breathtaking. "Titans West, huh?"

"I was unaware you were planning on changing the team name, Robin"

"I was unaware I was talking out loud. Did I disturb you, Raven?" Dick glanced over at the young sorceress who was floating in the lotus position. Her blue hood was up casting a shadow over her face, but Dick could see one eye staring back at him.

"Less so than the others. They were playing some sort of game with cheese in a dirty sock. I believe the cheese was made of soy, not that it matters other than it ended up in my room."

"I see, and where are the others now?"

"Well, until the smell clears out of my room or they clean the fridge, I have hidden all the game controllers and the remotes. I assume they are cleaning the fridge."

"Now that's cruel." Dick grinned remembering his own scare in the kitchen when he first went exploring. He moved across from her and waited for her to nod before sitting down. She was hovering above the roof, so he leaned back on his hands to get a better view. He was unsure if he was more surprised to find himself floating with her or because her hood had been pushed back.

"You seem different since your run in with Slade."

"Do I?" Every lesson on blending in came crashing at Dick. His whole conversation thus far seemed to be asking questions. While his seclusion since coming to this dimension may not seem odd to his teammates, the black tank top and pants he was wearing would. Dick had long deduced Ryeka never stopped being Robin, but no matter the consequences, Dick's body locked down when he thought of putting on the uniform again.

"You seem," Raven tilted her head, "older."

"I feel older." Dick hoped it was true. As Robin he had felt young, in the days that Batman described as simpler, but Dick suspected he never felt young when leading the Titans -- except in failure. After all, the point of starting the Teen Titans was to prove to their mentors they were more than just kids. Tim never seemed young these days, Ryeka was most likely no different. If nothing else, Dick knew he was more experienced than his counterpart.

Raven snapped him out of his thoughts a few minutes later. "You know, Star still worries about you when you chase Slade like that."

The accusation hung between them as Dick tried to think of some universal truth about Kory, even with the little experience he'd had with Starfire. "Starfire feels things intensely."

"More so than us."

With Raven's flat, grainy voice, Dick couldn't tell if it was a statement or a question. "I mean, she hasn't been trained to put feelings aside like we have."

"Trained?"

"I don't think it was intentional in my case. That would undermine the whole point of the bright colors and the horrible jokes, right? 'You do not teach your students to acquire your wounds, you teach them what you did once you began to heal.' But it's there, mission after mission, as the body count began to rise, you turn yourself off to save one more life. And you don't notice it because the value of that one life, that's what's been trained into you. No matter what horrible atrocities that person's done, their life has value. It's an impossible ideal to live up to," how had he gotten off topic so fast, "but you don't get to stop trying." He brought the edge of the towel up to his nose for a moment, smelling the fabric softener through the moisture it had absorbed from the air. "But if you're lucky, there will be people there for you when you fail, some of whom will have half the expectations of you anyway. That I learned on my own. But the ideals, those were trained."

"I was trained to suppress my emotions, to prevent the atrocities I could bring. The training didn't fail, it's purpose did."

A silence settled between them as they sat above the roof. The memories of Blockbuster seemingly slightly less horrible to Dick and the memories of his second Titan's team slightly more recent. He allowed himself to wallow in them for a time before returning to his problem from that morning. Reviewing every move he made, he knew his sense of timing was off due to his new body. But even closing his eyes and going on instinct had failed.

"You're thinking too hard."

"What?"

"Whatever you're trying to fix, you're thinking too hard."

It was obvious. "You know, you're right." Dick dropped his feet to the floor and headed back towards the roof door. "Thanks, Raven. Remind me to repay you the meditation sometime."

After a brief side trip to drop off the towel, Dick headed to the kitchen. He spotted Beast Boy learning on the closed refrigerator. "I thought cleaning the fridge was a group job."

"It was," Beast Boy crossed his arms and slouched down further, "but Star and Cyborg had a training session planned so they left me to finish the job."

"Meaning you didn't help with when they were cleaning earlier."

"That's_ beside_ the point."

"How about a break? I need some help with some training of my own."

"Really?" Dick could almost see stars in his teammate's eyes "Dude, that would be awesome."

"Meet me at the park in ten."

Two hours later, Dick was moving smoothly between tree branches. While his moves were not enough to wow a circus crowd, with his mind focused on his opponent, his body was free to react. He and Beast Boy were well into their fifth round of hide and seek. Beast Boy's ability to amplify his senses and speed and change size pushed Dick to concentrate on his detective and stealth skills. Twenty minutes into Beast Boy being tagged it, Dick was trying to keep his scent downwind of the green hound's nose when his communicator began to beep. Cyborg was calling.

"Titans, we've got trouble."

.:N:.


	10. Distortions Chapter 8

_Distortions_ Chapter 8

.:N:.

"Oh man, I can't believe these guys got the best of us. Again."

"If it is at all some consolation, we have recovered the jewels the thieves attempted to steal."

"It is, but getting back the goods today won't stop them from taking others tomorrow. And we're no closer to finding out whom is behind this."

"Who ever it is, they've been making monkeys out of all of us, and not even the good kind, see?"

"We haven't seen Slade since he attacked Robin. Humanoid robots are his style."

"True, but I don't think he's behind this, Raven. I'd have to catch one without it melting to be positive, but these seem more complex than even Slade's body doubles. If they are his, they're second generation."

"And the robbing of the store of jewels fits neither Slade's M or his O."

"And just look at the robots. They're not even in Slade's colors, and they all have those spooky red eyes. They're like nightmares -- uh, I mean, if I wasn't a hero they'd be like nightmares."

"I took another sample of the androids, maybe there's something traceable that I've missed before."

"Oh, I do wish Robin was here. He'd know how to find the mastermind."

"We all do, Star, but he's not. We just need a good plan."

"Cyborg, Starfire, and I will hold off the fighter. Beast Boy can follow the runner, _stealthed_."

"Me? But what if he attacks me?"

"If we don't hold back the three of us should be sufficient to destroy the robot quickly. We would be right behind you."

"Right behind, _right_."

"Unless we can figure out some other connection, I think this is our best shot. Let's head back to the Tower, guys. We've got a long day tomorrow. While I analyze the remains you should all check out stores in the area which haven't been hit yet."

Dick switched off the bug he had place inside the car and headed back to the Tower gym. The others would be back soon and he needed to be sure his deniability was in place. They had banned him from the case, most likely in an effort to keep him from following and inadvertently becoming a liability. He was fairly sure they wouldn't be pleased to find out that he had been monitoring them and especially not pleased that he had been slipping out of the tower after hours to investigate the crime scenes. His detective abilities had not been affected by his physical condition and Dick saw no reason not to check out the evidence, either at the crime scene or at the police station. And while his fighting abilities weren't at an android supervillain level, it was at a three thug-two mugger level, as proven by last night's patrol.

Beginning a light warm up exercise for the night's excursions, Dick mentally reviewed the case file. Two identical, masked men had hit five jewelry stores in as many nights, this night being the third since the Titans had been called in. The first night, one of the masked figures had escaped while the other stayed behind to distract the Titans. Only after knocking out the robber did they discover it was an android, though any evidence of use was lost when the machine melted. The previous night's plan to plant a tracking device on the runner failed when the device was knocked offline as soon as it hit its body. Cyborg assumed the robots gave off something akin to a light EMP field; not enough to mess with his circuits but enough to knock out any tracers, lights, and the security cameras. This night's plan to ignore the first android and follow the runner ended with both androids being destroyed, along with half the city block. True, the merchandise had been recovered, but they were no closer to discovering the source.

And so far, no amount of researching or patrolling could ease Dick's apprehension for this case. There was something more than the robberies, something familiar, something he should know, but with as much as this world had diverged from his own, he hadn't identified it.

Dick landed in front of the yellow police taped door with a triple flip for no other reason than he had mastered it earlier in the day. The entire block was littered with broken glass, concrete, and metal. Dick fished a small light from the utility belt he had put on over his black insignia-free clothes, making him feel more like a thief than a detective. The light beam burst though the darkness, revealing the destruction inside the store. Three of the display cases were completely destroyed, the other three had the glass broken in, and the safe had fist sized hole through the door. In addition, the broken racks of stiletto heel boots from the European lingerie boutique next door were visible though the five foot hole in the east wall, while street was visible though the all but demolished west wall.

Looking between the lingerie store and the jewelry store, Dick couldn't help but wonder about Babs. She visited him in his dreams, as the teenaged girl with a dusting of freckles across his nose. She had called him "munchkin" and "short-stuff" back then, thinking of him as much too young to indulge his childhood crush. Of course, she would've realized he was too old for those names had she known he was Batman's junior partner. Looking inside the empty engagement ring case, Dick knew he had been reminiscing too long and too frequently. Some days he felt like he had lived too many adventures for his twenty-odd years. Batman would've berated him for losing focus during an investigation, but Dick couldn't regret doing so when it came to Barbara.

Dick collected two dark blue fibers, similar to the ones he had found at the previous stores, from where it had been caught on the safe. Investigating near the western wall went slower due to the amount of debris. From his time in Gotham during the 'Quake, Dick could tell the wall was still unstable, despite the temporary support the emergency crews had built. But other than the work done on the support beams, the area seemed undisturbed.

When he moved his light under a small section of wall, Dick noticed a small patch the light refracted incorrectly off the glass. It could have been a slight imperfection, but he was trained to never assume. He wasn't strong enough and didn't have the right tools to lift the wall section, which was why he found himself blindly reaching though the wedge between the wall and the floor. Thanking his smaller arms, his slim fingers were able to locate a slight bump in the mirror. Dick was only slightly surprised to remove a small lens suctioned to the glass. It was two inches across, but only a few millimeters thick. From inside the building, the circle would only look like a reflection of the light, but from the outside, it was a near 200 degree fisheye lens. With the right distance, someone could see almost the entire inside of the store without any electrical equipment. On the roof of the dog accessory boutique across the western street, Dick found evidence of scuff marks from a tripod. A telescopic lens could have been aimed at the store though the fisheye lens, allowing someone to watch or record nearly everything inside the store; it would be a simple solution if Cyborg's EMP theory was correct.

At the second and fourth robbery sites Dick revisited, he noticed small, two inch, circular marks on the windows. At all sites he was able to locate a building nearby where the tripod had been. And at last site, Dick located a blond hair caught on an old antenna near where the tripod scuff marks were. Dick held the evidence bag up to the dim moonlight, staring at it through squinted eyes before launching himself off the roof and back to the Tower. He didn't have time to patrol tonight.

It was near 0900 hours when Dick made the breakthrough, though not on the case. He had compared the new fibers to the ones he had collected previously; they matched but Dick had been unable to locate the company which made it. The computer was still running a search for information on the fiber and flat fisheye lenses, and a DNA match from the hair. He was looking for the robbery pattern when someone turned on the music.

Despite the fact that the Tower was probably soundproofed, the contemporary R&B/hip-hop -- which Alfred most assuredly would have described as "noise" -- seemed to flow throughout all the rooms. Dick sighed; Ryeka lacked variety in music choices also. There was only one music folder on his computer with classic rock, thoughtfully named "old stuff". There were a few songs from The Who, Pink Floyd, and Eric Clapton, and one Zeppelin song, "Stairway to Heaven". When Dick had been young, he had overheard some kids at school talk about the hidden satanic message in the song. He scratched Bruce's copy of Zeppelin IV in his attempts to hear it until Alfred indulged him by showing him about backmasking. After many failed attempts to make a hidden backwards message that didn't require him to speak gibberish, Dick admitted making a subliminal message was _hard_, even with Alfred's help. He had always been disappointed he never created his message, which might explain why Ryeka had a music editor in the same directory. Unless Ryeka found another use for it.

Of course, if Ryeka had reversed the so called satanic message in "Stairway to Heaven", then why would he need the music editor and why not save the file? Curious, Dick opened the list of the files last accessed by the editor. The list was entirely of "Stairway to Heaven", used at least once a day for the week before Ryeka disappeared. He took the external hard drive out from the hidden drawer he discovered it in two days ago. The files were protected by some sort of passkey, and protected from hacking by a potential virus. The only things accessible were a list of executable files, all named after villains in Gotham. Dick deduced earlier that to unlock the hard drive, he had to run some file through one of the executables, but had not known which. But he could guess now.

It took longer than he expected to isolate the verse and reverse it, though he didn't hesitate to run it though twoface.exe. The majority of files unlocked were video files, named by their year, month, day, location, and what was probably a camera code number. Dick selected a file at random from the largest cluster of files.

Dick watched himself -- Ryeka-- in a black and orange suit fighting the other Teen Titans on top of a Wayne building. The video had a small S watermark in the lower left hand corner which Dick had come to recognize as Slade's. With growing dread, Dick moved through the other files, watching what he had only read about. There were files from when Ryeka had created Red X and files of Ryeka fighting Slade. Dick watched excerpts all the files, knowing Ryeka watched them every day at least for a week with the same regiment of self punishment that Batman watched the news of the people he didn't save every morning after patrol. The same regiment of self punishment he had once used after his betrayal of the Titans.

Long after Dick's injuries from the torture had healed, long after he detoxed from the drugs Mother Mayhem used, long after he stopped feeling Raven's presence in his head, long after the rest of the Titans had forgiven him, Dick still had a copy of his speech.

_They were wr.. wrong. We -- we attacked before I knew Brother Blood was -- was Holy. The Titans were wrong to attack Brother Blood again, to -- to try to kill him. Brother Blood is good, good for the world. And the Titans deserve excommunication for hurting him! All hail Brother Blood!_

Dick would never know how much of his history with the Titans and Bruce would've been different had he not been under Brother Blood's influence for years: his decisions about Terra, getting fired as Robin, his anger about Jason. It would've been easy for most anyone else to accept that some of their actions were influenced by the Confessor. Yet so much had changed during that time, from Titan's betrayal to becoming Nightwing, Dick couldn't accept that resolution. If he was unaware he was being influenced before, how could he tell the conditioning had truly been broken? Otherwise every time he got angry or made a mistake, how could he know he was himself? So he watched the video when problem arose, to remind himself whom he was not. Dick had only locked away the recording after he returned from chasing Kory to Rio.

Ryeka apparently didn't share the benefits of his first failed engagement.

If Starfire had knocked a minute before or just walked in, Dick would've shown her the files. He would've sat her down and explained what they were for and how they had to _stop_ Ryeka when he returned. But she did neither so Dick shut down the hard drive before answering the door.

"What's up, Star?"

"Robin, I am afraid we have not the time for the hiding or the seeking today." What Dick had started with Beast Boy had turned into a daily team free for all in the park.

"Got a lead on the robberies?"

"Not as of this moment, but we shall persevere. You would not happen to be working the case by yourself?"

"You know me." Dick used his best playboy smile, the one that disarmed all the ladies -- except Kory and Barbara.

"That is what worries me, except-" Kory circled closely around him, hovering slightly in the air.

"Except?"

She poked him in the forehead, hard.

"Owe, hey, I'm not a hologram." She nodded. "Hey, could you do me a favor? Could you tell the others I'd like to have a meeting tonight at 1800 unless you're out fighting? I'll get the food."

"I will tell them. Be well, friend Robin." She turned back down the hall.

With his back to the closed door, Dick considered his next move. He grabbed a pen and the journal.

**Day Six**

**Ryeka,**

**I suppose my last few journal entries focus on my training and the case and, though I'm sure you appreciate knowing the condition of your body, could be considered dull. I worried about influencing you with thoughts of my world. But today I accessed your external hard drive, I have watched your recordings, and I know what they are. I understand them.**

**What I have not been able to understand is your obsession with Slade, even before he attempted to make you his apprentice. I suppose I should share with you some differences between our worlds when I say this. The Slade of my world is known as Deathstroke the Terminator. He is-was-is an assassin, one of the best in the world, and though he lacks morals, he does-did have a code. It wasn't Deathstroke who accepted the contract on the Teen Titans, but one we watched him inherit, for his code would allow him no less. Yet, as close as he became to destroying us through our own Terra, Deathstroke became an unusual ally, a hired hand, and almost a mission leader. Do not misunderstand, Deathstoke's loyalty was always to the highest bidder, but I believe we earned a position of respect in his eyes.**

**Years of hardships changed him, though I had not known how far until the week before I arrived. In many ways I am here because of him as you are not here because of Slade. Deathstroke lost his code and became a far worse threat than you can imagine.**

**I have not encountered him myself, but Slade seems a middle ground; he neither lives by a code, nor has destroyed civilians without remorse for vengeance. So what was it you encountered that first day that drove you to obsession?**

**Batman.**

**The obvious answer. I always hated when everyone so easily pointed to Batman as the root of all my problems. Yet, the obsessive nature and even the target of the obsession reads Batman. Because Slade could almost be Batman without the mission, and yet without the mission there would be no Batman. But if Bruce had simply acquired all the skills, been given meta abilities, and had no mission, could boredom have not turned Bruce into Slade?**

**Did you sense the familiarity the first time you spoke to the man, the darkness calling out to you? Perhaps it is the tone of voice, the one Batman could always use to snap you into soldier mode, which had you moving to follow the orders before you even thought to protest. Did you just sense his obsession with you?**

**Or perhaps were you the one reaching out that time? For all your strive to independence, for all your work as a leader, for as much as you wanted Batman to stop telling you what to do -- when you were young, did Batman create a need inside you to have that absolute authority figure in your life? The need to let everything go and fill yourself with that authority, and to prove time and time again your loyalty? Have you felt lost without it since your complete silence with him?**

**I told Deathstroke's most recent -- former -- apprentice that she had yet to understand the depth of loyalty, even after she reveled she was the one to stab out her own eye as a sign of fidelity.**

**I asked myself once: If Bruce had been a bad guy instead of a hero, would I still have tried as hard to please and be like him? How would I have known the difference?**

**Maybe, from the world you're in now or the next world I end up in, we will find out.**

The computer beep again, signaling the end of one search. Dick read the readout twice before smashing the paper into a ball and hurling it across the room. It confirmed his suspicions. Glancing back at the journal, Dick was tempted to do the same thing with his recent entry, but he had no time to worry. There was too else to figure out before the meeting.

.:N:.

Quotes:

Wolfman._ New Teen Titans 29_, 1986.

Grayson._ Nightwing 79_, 2003.


	11. Distortions Chapter 9

_Distortions_ Chapter 9

.:N:.

"McDaniel, Land, Zircher, Leonardi, and Lilly: all small businesses, all the targets of this week's thefts." Each crime scene photo was placed on the table with an efficient snap, the destruction depicted in each one progressively worse than the last. "No geographical pattern. No connection between the five of them -- not the suppliers, the employees, contractors, insurance companies -- unless you look back a few years. They all used to be insured by a local company, Pillager Insurance, until businesses began to pull out. Claimed they feared the city and technology had progressed too quickly to be safe with a small insurance company and switched to various national companies. The jewelry stores were the high risk, prominent businesses in Pillager's portfolio, and with them gone the company finally went under last year." Copies of the cancelled insurance policies were placed by the photos. "Each store has been hit in the order they left, leaving only one store to finish the pattern: Morales."

"So you're saying that this whole thing is revenge?"

"The setup is too complex for just revenge; it's a message. Tonight will be the last store in the message, and therefore it will be the most dangerous. I suspect tonight will require an audience, meaning the store will most likely be hit before closing. Which only gives us a few hours to prepare and the additional concern of civilian casualties."

"Then we go shake down a few ex-employees and find out what they know."

"Our first priority needs to be closing down the surrounding area. Even with the pattern and the previous destruction, convincing the police to shut down around twenty businesses is going to be difficult."

"What about the perpetrator of crimes?"

"There are a few possibilities, most likely a Harold Smith. All traces of him disappear after the company filed bankruptcy. It will take a few days to trace him. Our best chance to track the thieves back to their base."

"Well, good thing we have a plan for that."

"Not quite. If one of you four doesn't remain to fight, the runner might not lead us back to the base. You four need to remain visible, someone else needs to follow."

"And I suppose you're volunteering for the job?" That was the shift in tone Dick had been expecting, which had probably only been held off by the black gag Raven had placed on Beast Boy.

"Actually, I called in a reserve member. He's just late, somehow."

"But that still doesn't explain what you were thinking."

Dick had to bite the inside of his mouth to prevent the Batman answer from slipping free. Batman's methods were brutally efficient and slightly tempting. It wasn't that he still thought of this team as strangers; he had lead strangers though time and between dimensions before on little more than a motivational speech. It wasn't that people's lives could be in danger and they were wasting time debating his actions; there were always people's lives in danger. It wasn't that he didn't know the consequences of running a team militaristically; he had seen the results with the JLA, had lived them with the Outsiders. But it was tempting to not concern himself with the consequences for once -- not his world, not his team.

He considered his words carefully. "Look, I'm not a metahuman, I don't have alien powers, and I don't know magic, and sometimes we go up against odds that would scare the hell out of me even if I was. When I first became Robin the only thing between me and the bad guys were my training and a few bad one liners. But in the news, there was another unlike anyone I had met, a Superman. I asked what he was like. 'Lightning. Thunder. He's not human, Robin. Never forget that.'

"I was patrolling solo the night he came into the city following a gang from Metropolis. I knew Superman only asked for my permission to operate within the city because it was _his_ city, but the Man of Steel doesn't need to ask some kid in bright colors for help. He flew me to the marina, looked through the walls of the warehouse, and smiled at me when I took the lead. Because of that, and because of this," Dick placed his hands on either side of the photos and reports he had placed on the table, "I discovered I could fight even a demigod and win. Not that I don't enjoy 'throwing cowboy', if you will, on someone twice my weight, but I know when I'm needed on the sidelines. That's what I was thinking."

There should be some risk involved in sharing personal stories with Ryeka's teammates. Dick knew the 'meeting Superman' stories from every single original Teen Titans members -- though admittedly the Wonder Woman stories were a bit more selective. Yet the wide-eyed, slacked-jaw looks around the room were undoubtedly from the fact he had shared a personal story, not a contradiction to what they already knew. And while he might believe that his team started because of youth and stupidity, but he had been fortunate to share those qualities with Donna, Garth, Roy, and Wally.

There was a slight change in air pressure in the room. Dick knew he was momentarily saved from their questions just as a yellow and red blur took his right hand in an exaggerated handshake.

"My name's Kid Flash: the fastest boy alive."

By the time Dick had mentally filled in the edited _Wally West,_ which Dick was fairly certain Wally told himself everyday, the yellow blur had repeated the same line to everyone in the room and focused in the chair to his left. Dick rolled his eyes. "We know who you are, and you're late."

"Yeah, yeah. I got distracted saving the world on my way over. And I wasn't sure you would remember who I was since you seem to be having an identity crisis of your own. The new color, and I stress the word _color_, very chic. What are we supposed to call you now?"

"Robin."

"Good, because I'd advise against going with something like Black Robin, Blackbird, or Crow."

"_Right_." Dick considered feeding the plate of burgers he had reserved for the speedster's metabolism to Silkie, but slid it over to the teen anyway.

"I know, we can add orange to your costume and you can be Flamebird." Kid Flash seemed genuinely pleased with himself.

"And people say I'm oblivious about these things. Besides, the name's already reserved and I'm not going to argue with her for it."

"Oh, really? Who is she? Is she cute? Is she your girlfriend?"

"What? Why would you? You know, not everyone hits on women as fast as you." He nodded towards the daisies Kid Flash had left in both female teammate's hands. Starfire was beaming over them -- which was probably fortunate for Dick -- while Raven was staring at them blankly.

"What can I say? Kid _Flash_ and the ladies love it."

Dick attempted not to pity this world's Frances Kane, Linda Park, or whomever he ended up with. "No comment. And yet, who knows, one day you could defy fate and have a twin in each arm."

The statement actually seemed to slow Kid Flash down, and Dick found himself staring at startling blue eyes. Because of the differences in the rest of his teammates, Dick had prepared for some splashy alternate version of his friend. The eyes were the only visual variation of Kid Flash and that was somehow all the more striking. Dark Flash had had blue eyes; the thought a grim reminder that the Titans didn't automatically trust alternate versions of their teammates. Of course no one had told them of the replacement or the eyes when it would've been helpful, a relevancy Dick was trying hard to ignore.

Furthermore, he was drawing the wrong type of attention to himself again.

"The plan is simple. The four of you engage the thieves. It's important that the fighter doesn't go down until the runner is away. In case someone is monitoring it we don't want them to get paranoid and divert the runner from his base. Take the fighter down with non-lethal methods, no injuries that could make it melt. If you can trap it, maybe Cyborg can interface with it before it destructs. Kid Flash, you will follow the runner when they separate. Stay off the scanners and if you find their base, signal, and wait for the others.

"And no complaining about waiting." He grinned at Kid Flash's mumbled response around a hamburger "While your doing that, I'll be working a lead on our guy from Pillager."

It was nearly seven before the finer details had been discussed and the meeting ended. Dick waited five minutes to be sure everyone had left before pulling out the lightly armored suit he'd been wearing for patrols. He was checking equipment when his communicator went off.

"Raven?"

"We've managed to convince the police to quarantine the area. They're thrilled." Dick wasn't sure he'd ever get used to Raven's sarcasm. "I believe they suggested there'd be less damage if we just let the thieves get away."

"We need to keep working with the police on this. Last thing we need is for them to start shooting at us instead."

"We didn't screw it up that bad."

"I know. I'm sorry, it's just that- never mind. It's me. Good work. Robin out."

The Titans had had their own gray patches with New York, but Dick knew his reaction had nothing to do with the Titans and everything to do with Batman. How ironic that he'd been dodging police bullets since he first went to Blüdhaven, only to get hit by one in Gotham after the Blüdhaven police had been cleaned up. The sharp twinge in his thigh could only be a memory.

In spite of the differences in uniforms and weapons, Ryeka and Dick liked their vehicles the same way: ridiculously overpowered. When Dick was driving four times the posted limit, there was no time to worry about his family or relationship or latest world crisis. Not when someone's grandmother was driving ten miles per hour less than the speed limit in her champagne 1979 Lincoln Continental Town Car. Then Dick had to concentrate on going around, or over, her without slowing down or causing her to lose control of the car. The faster he traveled, the less time he had to brood. There were, obviously, diminishing returns to consider, such as when he blinked and Wally had moved them halfway across the country. Time had a very different meaning for speedsters. Ever since Wally had learned to share his speed, Dick could -- in theory -- relatively stop time to brood for hours within a minute. Dick wasn't sure if he'd actually resolve some of his issues or just torment himself more, so the option wasn't something he thought about. Besides, Wally would most likely be against it, calling it way too Batman-esque.

Three blocks from Morales Diamonds, Dick heard the unmistakable slam of a body into a brick wall. Two blocks, he was weaving through a small crowd of gawkers at the police barricade. One block, he was on foot moving across the rooftops towards the battle.

Dick paused just long enough to check the condition of the Teen Titans. Gorilla Beast Boy was attempting to pin the thief's arms while Raven bound his legs with her magic. Cyborg and Starfire were in a pile near a parking meter, looking dazed but unhurt. Kid Flash and the runner were nowhere in sight. Though the thief had managed to throw Beast Boy off him, Dick concluded he wasn't needed in the fight and began scanning for a watcher. The area was empty. There were no indications of a tripod on any of the surrounding roofs. If the device had only been used to survey the stores before the robberies, then there should've been signs of it at this location as well. Dick bit his lower lip and watched the street below.

The thief was spiriting, starbolts at his heels, long strides in his dark blue suit. It took Dick a moment to realize the shadows highlighting the muscles were actually light blue and black lines of varying widths perfectly drawn to enhance the wearer's physique. Even an android would appear to be flexing muscles as it moved. The shoulders and head were armored with what appeared to be some sort of scales in the same light blue color. The lenses were red. An empty sword sheath was strapped to his back.

Cyborg seized the thief's left arm and pivoted, lining him up to be kicked by donkey Beast Boy into a nearby car. A black ring surrounded the vehicle a second later, wrapping the car around the thief from the shoulders down. A moment later elephant Beast Boy and Starfire were pushing down on the black wall as well. Cyborg cracked his knuckles and approached the figure.

"Let's see what goodies in this guy's head are in store for Dr. Cyborg."

There was a collective gasp, but Dick's vision was blocked by his teammate's back.

"This situation lacks understanding."

"He's human!"

"Who is he?"

"We could've killed you."

The man sighed. "What are you, the Scooby Doo gang? Can't you see that was the point?"

.:N:.

Quotes:

Puckett._ Legends of the DC Universe 6_, 1998.


End file.
